


D-E-Double-R-Y

by Elliott_Fletcher



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Airplanes, M/M, Richie Tozier-centric, Strangers, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: The man clears his throat. “I said, distract me? I’m a risk analyst. I know every way this plane could crash. And . . . I’m usually fine, but they confiscated my Xanax at security for not being ‘properly labelled’”“They took my Ritalin, too,” Richie says, sympathetically, stuffing his headphones back in the front pouch of his bag. “Where’re you from?”After a reeling phone call from Mike Hanlon, Richie books a flight to Derry.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	D-E-Double-R-Y

Richie gets the call before his first Radio City show. It takes too long to remember the name--Hanlon, Mike Hanlon. His memories of his hometown are foggy, either from drinking to gratuitously in his college years or the repression. He hears Mike talking, but he can only pick out certain words over the cacophonous churning of his stomach. “It’s back,” Mike says, and “How fast can you get to Derry?” _Where the fuck even is Derry?_

Richie hangs up, turns on his heel, and promptly throws up. 

He packs his suitcase, the one with the travel stickers; Tennessee, Chicago, Boston . . . Everywhere standup has whisked him away to. Everywhere but Derry. God, it was nothing to leave that town, and yet it feels like everything to go back again. Derry is a two-faced magnet, pulling him in and repelling him in equal measure. It leaves him all twisted up inside, and with a strong feeling of _déjà vu,_ though he can’t recall much of anything. That in itself may be the most troubling. 

_How many shirts do you pack for an emergency visit to your hometown that you didn’t remember existed until an hour ago when your childhood friend who you also didn’t remember calls you up for a nice cryptic chat?_ Richie types into his twitter because maybe if he shares it with forty-thousand-some-odd strangers it will start to make sense. **Too many characters**. 

Richie Tozier sits on his bed, pulls the shirt off his back, sniffs it, and throws it in his suitcase. He looks out the window with such intensity, like it’s the camera in ‘The Office,’ and lets out a guttural, Neanderthal, “Fuck.” 

* * *

He taxis to the airport, signing his autograph for the driver who insists on telling him jokes the entire ride. 

“What’s the next plane to Derry, Maine?” He asks a customer service representative. She raises an eyebrow, staring him dead in the eye while her fingers chatter away at the keyboard. Richie is always baffled by people who can type without looking. When he writes his (mostly-unused) material, he’s more of a poke-one-key-at-a-time kind of guy. 

“You said Derry? Like . . . ice cream?” Richie looks her right in the forehead, unblinking. “Milk? Cheese?” She prompts. 

“Yeah—yeah,” He starts, interrupting her droning list. “D-E-Double-R-Y.” He blinks a few times, and the feeling of _déjà vu_ hits him like a feather does not hit a floor. Wasn’t that their cheer-squad chant from high school? He wasn’t friends with anyone on cheer squad. 

“Portland International or Bangor?” 

“Portland.” 

* * *

It’s not a crowded flight by any means, but there’s too much luggage for the overhead compartments; passengers shove their backpacks underneath the seats in front of them. It feels like a family road-trip: eight people in the six-seater and everyone packed for the end of the world. 

It feels a bit like it. The end of the world. 

Richie boards in Group 2, just after wheelchairs, walkers, and unaccompanied minors. He takes his seat – it’s tan, and on _this side_ of uncomfortable but bearable. The plane sits two passengers on the right, one on the left, and beyond the curtain separating business class and economy, the seats double. Richie is on the right-hand side, aisle. If he takes one look out that tiny, unassuming, ovular window, he’s gonna upchuck his Froot Loops. He tucks his bag away and takes his seat, not buckling until his aisle-buddy boards. It’s not until they call for Groups 4-6 that Richie figures that he doesn’t have one. _Click_. 

“No, you aren’t listening to me—I can smell the cashews on her. Get a whiff,” A man talks, spitting words out faster than the flight attendant can process. He only pauses to inhale dramatically. “I can feel my throat closing up as we speak.” 

“Alright, we’ll see what we can do, sir,” The flight attendant says, nonplussed. 

The man opens his mouth wide, as if for the dentist. “Can you see? Look at it—Oh,” He closes his mouth abruptly. “Thank you.” 

“Right here, sir,” She gestures to the window seat past Richie. He gets a good look at the man, matches the voice to the face. Clean-shaven, bags under the eyes . . . his eyebrows have an upturn to them that give him a perpetually sad look . . . beady, brown eyes. The flight attendant speaks, harsh, drawing Richie’s gaze to her: “Will this do?” 

“It should, uh,” The man says, “Excuse me, have you had any tree nuts in the last twenty-four hours?” 

“Haven’t nut in a week, no.” The joke spills from him without much thought, and with a _ching_ _,_ he’s unbuckled and stood to let the man pass. He rolls his eyes, so Richie gives an apologetic shrug. 

The plane taxis out from the terminal, down winding roads until the engine rumbles, vibrates, pulling them from the ground and into the endless sky. It’s during that _woosh_ of his stomach that the man speaks again. Richie is pulling his headphones out from their zippered pocket, but stalls at that voice. It’s quiet. 

“What?” 

The man clears his throat. “I said, distract me? I’m a risk analyst. I know every way this plane could crash. And . . . I’m usually fine, but they confiscated my Xanax at security for not being ‘properly labelled’” 

“They took my Ritalin, too,” Richie says, sympathetically, stuffing his headphones back in the front pouch of his bag. “Where’re you from?” 

“New York.” His accent doesn’t match the state. 

“What calms you down?” 

He pauses for a while, looks at the clouds through the oblong window. His brow furrows, and he closes the shudder. “Jokes, I guess.” 

Richie smiles, “Well, it’s your lucky day: I’m a comedian.” 

They talk for half the flight. The man declares Richie a jerk, but the worry lines on his forehead ease. 

“Why Portland?” Richie asks, “Or wait, let me guess, for the gay scene?” 

“What? I have a wife,” he says. “I was called out for an emergency.” 

“Work?” Richie recalls, _risk analyst._

The man huffs, “I wish.” 

When the plane lands, they don’t exchange numbers. They grab their luggage and file out. It’s a solemn walk to the rental car lot, but they do it together. When they split—the man toward a black SUV, himself a bright red Mazda—Richie sends him a salute. 

The man mimics the motion, shaking his head stupidly. Richie slams the driver’s side door and whips out of the parking lot. Maybe he’ll get into an accident. Maybe that’ll curb the splitting migraine he’s had ever since that man sat down beside him. 


End file.
